


mirror mirror on the wall. tell me, am i real at all?

by babbeige (orphan_account)



Series: mother never weep [2]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Daddy Issues, Depersonalization, Derealization, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Self-Destruction, Suicidal Thoughts, Wilbur Soot Angst, Wilbur Soot-centric, in the 'copious amounts of alcohol' way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/babbeige
Summary: he hates looking at himself.he loves looking at himself.he doesn't know what he feels.( does he even feel anymore? can he feel anymore? he wants to find out. )he wants to kill himself slowly and beautifully.he wants.or,sometimes he thinks his mind is so outstandingly hideous in it's path in self destruction. sometimes he thinks it's beautiful enough to write poems about. most of the time he thinks he's damned.
Series: mother never weep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2074383
Comments: 1
Kudos: 95





	mirror mirror on the wall. tell me, am i real at all?

**Author's Note:**

> the 'mother never weep' series is just fics with similar themes of angst. they aren't connected much :] unbeta ed & i wrote this in chunks which were supposed to be different fics so it'll most probably not flow very well lol.  
> im not writing their real persons at all, im just very angsty and need an outlet.

techno shifts his weight from one leg to another, holding onto wilbur's shoulder. his grip is tight and his hand is trembling. wilbur tries to swallow down the guilt he feels itching at his chest. 

at least he feels it this time. the last time he'd been at techno's doorstep asking to crash on his couch, he was too high and drunk off his ass to even register the shake in his friend's voice; the worry and the fear. he'd never hated himself during a hangover more than the one after that, when all the memories started flooding back. 

he almost wishes he was one of those drunks like his father that forget everything they did under the influence. oh, to be able to hide behind the easy excuse of 'its the alcohol, it wasn't me. i didn't mean to' like a coward. little wil had believed it the first five times it was cried to him. the first five times he'd ended up with glass shards stuck in his palms and a bruised body. the first five times he thought his dad was being controlled by a monster because 'daddy wouldn't hurt me like this, he loves me!' the first five times he carries with him like a demented replacement for luggage, wanting to forget it but being scared to lose it.

it happened so many times after the first five.

it'd be selfish but at least his alcoholism wouldn't be filled with so much regret. hah. hell, who's he kidding. he'd much rather hurt knowing he's hurting others than be in his own ignorant bubble like his father was. he thinks he'd much rather off himself than be like that man.

tech's grip on wil's shoulder loosens a bit and that gets him out of his mind. techno frowns, but his subtle expression isn't unkind. wilbur almost wishes it was, but he knows that the day he manages to fuck up to the point of pissing techno off is the day their friendship truly breaks.

he fucking hates that it's a possibility now. (and it's all his fault.)

"wilbur.. you can't just keep showing up like this and-" 

"i know." wilbur says simply, looking up at technoblade from his hunched over position. his messed up hair is overgrown enough to almost block his vision. he wonders when was the last time he'd brushed through it. he comes up blank. 

techno's little apartment comes to a stiff silence. he lets wilbur sleep in his couch.

.

.

.

he heads home after an hour trying to squeeze out the last drops of the buzz in his veins. eventually it had ran out, and the discomfort of reality set in too fast and hard for him to keep it together in someone else's home.

and so, he's in his bathroom. it is where all good moments of brief clarity and subsequent mental breakdowns happen afterall.

he stares into the mirror. 

the beanie he wore messed up his hair even more and he combs through it with his hands. there are obvious circles under his eyes and a flush on his cheeks. 

he grabs at the scarf he'd haphazardly wrapped around his neck after leaving tech's apartment and pulls it off. he grabs at his neck. its thin, dotted with freckles and marked with a hickey he can't remember when he got. that in and of itself should be concerning but he can't bring himself to care. does this body mean anything anymore?

( does he mean anything anymore? )

he swears on his life that he always tries. he tried to help his mother. he tried to help himself. he tried and he's trying to survive. he tries and he tries and he always fails in the end. he's hurt and hurts others.

hes beginning to think he's cursed.

he's beginning to think there's no use trying.

it ultimately all starts with a sip and ends with a sniff or a huff when he ultimately breaks and fucks around for the high and nothing else. 

sometimes his life feels like it's always ever been about chasing the high and nothing else.

his eyes linger on his face, gaze trailing along features that look so alien to him. he feels less like a human with thoughts and emotions, and more like a doll carved out of porcelain and fixed together with robotic precision. his face looks unnatural to him, like his porcelain is melting, decaying and begging to be retouched. he blinks slowly, locking eyes with identical ones in the mirror. is he even real?

he looks so..  
fake.

brown eyes peer into brown eyes, he can see the bathroom lights reflecting off his pupils. he can see specks of black in the chestnut brown of his eyes. his lips are dry and bitten a raw pink. his eyelashes are long, individually thin but plentiful. the ones on his bottom lid cross and intertwine together, forming little 'X's. he looks like a doll, or a robot. he looks fake. he feels fake. he wants to look inside himself, peel back his skin and look into his soul. he wants to see how rotted it is inside him, how gross it must be. he wants to see if there's anything inside at all.

his eyes burn, dry, and he blinks a couple of times to rid of the feeling. memories of the time his father, slurring his words and with the scent of alcohol so strong it hurt little wilbur's nose, mistook him for his mother for a split second with his overgrown hair and similar sweaters suddenly flood his mind. 

his head hurts. 

he remembers being in the bathroom of a convenience store chopping his hair away with stolen scissors right afterwards; the frantic snips and hushed curses when the scissors jammed, feeling like he was an inch away from having a full blown panic attack in a bathroom some poor employee would have to clean. he remembers looking in the mirror afterwards, combing through his hair with trembling fingers. it was a mess but he was strangely proud of it.

wilbur stares into the mirror.

he needs to cut his hair soon.

he wants to cut his hair soon.

he wants a lot of things. he wants to cover his glittery eyes in blood and see his eyelashes drown in red. he wants to taste acid and see his pink lips soiled by puke. he wants to see his skin covered in bruises and cuts and bites. he wants to slowly die, he wants to watch his bones crack and break and his marrow weep. he wants to hurt and cry and break. he wants to self-destruct. he wants to have his existence reek of tragedy and blood.

he wants to be loved. he doesn't want to fall apart. he wants love, love, love. he wants hugs and kindness and kisses on bruises. he wants friends. he wants clarity. he wants help. he wants to feel cherished and hugged and kissed and fucked so gently it feels like he's going to melt. he wants to die in the throes of love.

he hates looking at himself.  
he loves looking at himself.  
he doesn't know what he feels.

( does he even feel anymore? can he feel anymore? he wants to find out. )

he wants to kill himself slowly and beautifully.

he wants.

.  
.  
.

sometimes he thinks his mind is so outstandingly hideous in it's path in self destruction. sometimes he thinks it's beautiful enough to write poems about. most of the time he thinks he's damned. he's sure he's beyond salvation because of vileness that lives in his head, tormenting him.

normal people don't seek out self destruction so happily, he thinks. they don't destroy themselves for fun. sometimes, he even wants to ruin everyone around him, to spread this disease within him to someone and drown them in it, and absolutely destroy them like he is himself. he feels more like a host for rot than a human. he doesn't feel real. he feels fake. an imposter. a fraud. 

his head hurts.

he looks at the mirror and tries to see a human. he tries to see himself. he tries.

his phone pings with a notification and he jolts. hearing his speedy heartbeat in his ears is oddly comforting. he takes out his phone from his back pocket and isn't that surprised to see it's a message from technoblade, probably asking if he's still alive. he's a good guy like that. wilbur's eyes hurt and the light from his phone doesn't help. he swipes the notification away and glances back at his mirror. 

he is him. he is. right? right.

his eyes linger on the person in the mirror and he snaps out of it with a harsh pinch on his wrist. he watches his skin turn pink. he opens up the cabinet above the sink and rattles around a few almost empty bottles before picking one out. he takes a few pills to hopefully calm his headache. he looks into the mirror again.

he sighs and decides to go the fuck to bed.


End file.
